


nothing else matters

by HoneyBeeez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Confessions, Confessions gone wrong, Getting Together, Iwaizumi is a good senpai, M/M, and watari is a good friend., im sure this has been done before, seemingly unrequited feelings, the both of them really try to keep the peace, theyre both idiots but understandably so, things are hard and confusing trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13436973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyBeeez/pseuds/HoneyBeeez
Summary: Kyoutani deals with things as they come, and when something goes wrong, he just has to move on from that, too.It's rare for something to shatter him completely that he can't move on. But, luckily, it looks like he doesn't have to.





	nothing else matters

**Author's Note:**

> so i have a lot of stuff to do and so, naturally, i gotta write.   
> this is something ive had in the works for a while, but i decided to completely start over and finish it, so please have this thing i wrote in, like, three hours

It’s not like he can ever get it back, those moments, those few, brief seconds where he thought that everything would be okay, those seconds where nothing was said, nothing was confirmed nor denied, those few seconds where the world flipped its axis, stopped spinning, where the world let him marvel in the moment instead of feeling the impending landslide. Because the landslide was the thing that mattered, the thing that left him shattered, the thing he would want to forget.

It’s not like it even mattered, not like anything he ever did matter, not when it concerned-

Thinking like that was never good, was it? Spending a weekend drowning in your worst thoughts really made you aware that they weren’t the best things to dwell on.

It’s not like it even mattered, but _damn_ , would he kill to get to relive those few seconds.

* * *

 

Kyoutani throws the gym door wide open and marches in, haphazardly throwing his bookbag into the bleachers as he goes and stretches with the rest of the team. It’s already stuffy, tense, the air thick as it settles around the team, and it’s noticeable. The third-years shoot worried, suspicious glances at each other as the rest of the warm-up is completed.

When they split up into groups, as they normally do, Kyoutani make sure to stick close to Iwaizumi’s side, careful not to make eye contact with anyone else as he does so. He doesn’t care if that means Oikawa’s the one setting to him, crooning at him that he’s finally realized the importance of Oikawa’s tosses, and he doesn’t care that it brings attention to himself, either. All that really matters is that, well, he isn’t anywhere near is year-mates.

So, he grudgingly puts up with the side-long glances Iwaizumi shoots him, nods once when Iwaizumi mouths, “are you okay?” in his direction, spikes all the tosses Oikawa directs to him, and keeps his mouth stapled shut throughout practice.

Even if the pair of eyes boring into his back puts him on edge. He doesn’t _care_.

* * *

 

“What’s wrong?” Iwaizumi asks, leaning on the wall as Kyoutani yanks on his uniform pants. He ignores his upperclassman. Iwaizumi raises his eyebrow, unimpressed, until Kunimi, the last one in the clubroom, shuffles out. “I know you’re not telling me something. You wouldn’t’ve been so clingy in practice if-”

“ _Fine_ ,” Kyoutani grits out, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt as he fastens them up. “Everything’s wrong.”

“Yahaba?” Iwaizumi questions, and the name has Kyoutani’s world crashing around him, his stomach like a casting of cement and his fingers freezing to a halt. “ _Ah_ ,” Iwaizumi sighs, shaking his head. “What did you do this time?”

“ _I didn’t do anything_!” Kyoutani refuses, the denial flying out of his mouth before he can check it, before those few seconds replay themselves in his head for the umpteenth time. His eyes glaze over, he knows they do, and he heaves out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

“You guys were doing good,” Iwaizumi notes, staring up on the ceiling in a way only looks cool when he’s the one doing it. “No fights, practices were smooth… and weren’t you three studying together?” The observations sting, because Kyoutani knows that all of those are gone now.

“Doesn’t matter,” Kyoutani mutters, stooping down to slip on his shoes. “What’s done is done and nobody can take it back, so living with the consequences is the only thing we can-”

“But _what happened_?” The question is more pointed now, like an inquisition rather than an upperclassman worrying about an underling. Kyoutani can’t bring himself to answer, biting at his lips and staring, resolutely, down at his feet. “Tell me when you’re ready,” Iwaizumi sighs, resigning, shaking Kyoutani’s shoulder a bit, “but we’re gonna be late like this. Hurry up.”

They part ways when they reach the school building, but Kyoutani can still feel the guilt settling in his chest when he sits at his desk and waits for class to start.

It feels almost like dying.

* * *

 

The one thing about the rec center’s gym was that it was familiar, its flooring lacquered over its obvious scuffs and its nets with gaping holes in them, its windows refusing to close that last remaining inch and its bleachers sticky with poorly-sopped-up soda and riddled with forgotten popcorn kernels. Kyoutani could map out every _inch_ with his eyes closed. The place was sacred, special, so it felt like being blanketed with warmth when Kyoutani walks in after class.

There’s no afternoon practice today, which suits Kyoutani just fine, because being away from them means being away from literally everything Kyoutani can’t bring himself to face, but its also upsetting. He’s _itching_ for something to do, something to get his blood singing in his veins, something that will tire him out so thoroughly that he can barely think. It’s like he craves it.

Which makes the rec center perfect.

There’s people in the gym, the volleyball net down for now as they dribble a ball up and down the court. They’re familiar faces, but Kyoutani has never brought himself to say hi, never allowed himself a moment to get to know anyone else. It’s not disconcerting, but it is a bit awkward. Kyoutani puts his bag down on the bleachers, takes a swig from his water bottle, before sprinting up the bleacher’s stairs, then down again, then running to the next isle and repeating.

There’s no music, only the sounds of scuffling sneakers on the glossed floor and thundering of the metal stairs under Kyoutani’s shoes. It’s all the rhythm he needs.

He climbs and descends until his knees are weak, until he nearly collapses under himself, and that’s when he wanders his way back to his bag, sucking his water bottle dry and settling on the floor to stretch out his legs and back. His muscles pull, ache, yell at him for working too hard, and he doesn’t mind. He focuses on his breathing, steadying himself and taking inventory of his ever action. He rolls his neck, feels the tension near his spine, circles his shoulders and feels their pliancy, leans from one side to the other and feels his sides scream. It’s a mindless bliss.

Kyoutani takes to the bleachers again when his breath is caught, albeit at a slower pace, and works at them steadily until the basketball players leave.

Setting up the spare net isn’t easy alone, but it gets done, and Kyoutani serves as many balls as he can before someone from the front desk comes to kick him out.

When he gets home, his mom’s not even surprised as how exhausted he is. He eats whatever food is offered to him before collapsing into bed and falling asleep before he could think about anything of importance.

* * *

 

He’s early to the next morning practice, grievously so, so he resolves to sit outside the gym and get some reading done for his literature class. He’s easily engrossed in the book, flipping page after page in an almost-frenzied manner, so he doesn’t notice anyone approach him until a bag hits the floor not too far away from him and someone sits beside it.

Kyoutani doesn’t have to flick his eyes to the side to know that it’s Yahaba. He flinches, pressing closer to his book and stares at the words determinedly, but they’re no longer sticking.

“Where were you yesterday?” Yahaba asks, breaking the silence with his voice carefully neutral, unbetraying. It makes Kyoutani’s teeth grit, on edge and nerve-wracked.

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Your mother said you didn’t come back after classes ended.”

“You went to my _house_?” Kyoutani seethes, snapping his book shut and whipping his head to the side, looking at Yahaba with murderous eyes. The other boy just looks tired.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” Yahaba spits back, the intent there but the execution lacking. “You know we need’a talk.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“That’s _bullshit_!”

“You’ve said your piece,” Kyoutani says, trying to ignore the lump in his throat, “there’s nothing left to say.”

He catches Coach Mizoguchi approaching from the corner of his eye, and takes Yahaba’s silence as finality, stuffing his book back into his bag and waiting at the gym doors for the coach. They nod stiffly at each other before the doors are unlocked and Kyoutani slips inside.

He sets up the nets himself, refusing to meet Yahaba’s eyes, and holes himself up in one of the far corners of the gym while he stretches on his own.

If Iwaizumi gave him sympathetic glances throughout practice, Kyoutani refused to acknowledge them.

* * *

 

Kyoutani ignores lunch to finish his homework he forgot to work on the night before, scribbling away answers that were long overdue and skimming passages that he should have already read. He notices when Watari pulls an adjacent chair to his desk and straddles it, but he doesn’t look up.

“Are you okay?” No response. “I guess we’re not studying tomorrow, huh?” Nothing. A heavy sigh. “You’re hurting his feelings, you know?”

“ _I’m_ hurting _his_ feelings?” Kyoutani asks, incredulously, finally snapping, glaring at Watari’s wide eyes.

“Kyoutani, he just wants to talk to-”

“ _He should’ve thought of that before he_ …” The words catch in Kyoutani’s throat, strangling him, replaying those few seconds behind his eyes once again, ripping his heart out. “He lost his chance. Tell him to stop.”

“You know he won’t,” Watari says, voice small paired with his sheepish expression, almost like he didn’t want to believe the words, himself, but both of them know he’s right.

Kyoutani’s phone buzzes from where it’s stashed in his pocket. He ignores it.

“Answer it, if it’s him,” Watari says, standing from his borrowed chair and sliding it back where it belonged. “You looked pretty busy, so I’ll leave you to it,” he adds, turning away, but before he can move away, Kyoutani catches his sleeve.

“How much do you know?” he asks.

“Everything,” comes Watari’s reply, making Kyoutani’s face slacken. “You’d really better talk to him. I can’t say anything else.” He gently removes Kyoutani hand, and gives him an embarrassed half-grin before ducking out of the classroom.

Kyoutani doesn’t check his phone.

* * *

 

Afternoon practice is just as smothering, just as suffocating, as the other practices they’ve had, but Kyoutani forces himself through it. He can’t ignore Yahaba like he wants to because they’ve been paired together in the same group along with the third years as Oikawa and Watari practice with the first years. Each spike he makes is worse and worse, and it’s all his fault. He’s jumping too early or too late, he’s hitting with his fingers and not his palms, he’s brushing to close to the net. It’s issue after issue and what makes him frustrated is the look in Yahaba’s eyes when the ball lands on the other side, like he’s caught between apologizing and sighing, and he can’t take that.

Like _hell_ he’ll accept an apology, like _hell_ does he want to hear one, anyways.

Every time, Kyoutani turns on his heel and lines right back up again. Every time, embarrassment coils deep in his gut and refuses to unravel.

* * *

 

It’s nearly dark by the time Kyoutani’s finished changing out of his practice clothes and walks off the school’s premise. He walks quickly, energy still pent up and struggling to come out, and he finds himself taking the long way home, the route that passes the convenient store. He thinks about going for a jog, later, when the night cold is the most annoying, but for now, he ducks into the store and buys himself a package of fried chicken.

Yahaba’s waiting for him by the time he exits the store. He pretends not to notice, but it’s hard not to when Yahaba falls into step with him, not saying a word.

“What do _you_ want?” Kyoutani asks through a mouthful, not bothering with manners, not caring. How could he care? Maybe if he was rude, he would leave, anyways.

“I just wanted to say that I’m s-”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Kyoutani bites, clicking his tongue.

“Can’t you just listen to me for a _fuckin’ second_?” Yahaba says, voice rising higher and higher until it explodes on his last two words. Kyoutani hides his irritation with him polishing off his chicken, but doesn’t answer his otherwise. “I didn’t know what to do. I was confused, I was _so, so_ _confused_ , I didn’t know what to do and I just-”

“You didn’t think this through too much, did you?” Kyoutani says, unapologetically cutting Yahaba’s incoherent rambling short. “You thought you would waltz right up to me, say you’re sorry, and then everything would go back to normal. Right?”

“That’s not-”

“That’s not how it works,” Kyoutani says, trampling over his words yet again. He throws his wrapper into the nearest trash can nonchalantly. “That’s not how _I_ work. Say what you want, but nothing’s gonna change the fact that _you left_.”

“ _I didn’t know what to do_!” Yahaba shouts, fists clenched at his sides, which surprises Kyoutani. He would have lashed out at him by now, like he used to, Kyoutani was sure of it. He’s holding himself back and it’s somehow pissing him off.

“You don’t have to force yourself to be near me, you know,” Kyoutani says, the words falling out of his mouth with all the bitterness he had in him. He keeps his pace although Yahaba’s has slowed, but it doesn’t deter him. He jogs a few steps to catch up, placing himself just slightly ahead of Kyoutani and angling his body so that it’s almost like he’s getting in his face, forcing him to listen.

“I never- I didn’t know what to think… I never thought of… of _anything_ like that before, I was…” Yahaba struggles to say, and his words are confusing. Kyoutani doesn’t slow. “I was _scared_ , because I didn’t know what to do, or what to say, because I didn’t want to hurt you, but I didn’t want to risk our friendship…” Kyoutani scoffs at the word, how flimsy it is, how unexpectedly heavy it is. “ _But I don’t care_.”

This is what makes him stop, what makes his jaw slacken and his eyes widen a fraction. This is what finally lets Yahaba to stand firmly in front of Kyoutani. The last time they were in this position, Yahaba was stern and Kyoutani was struggling. It felt like a millennia ago.

“I don’t care about losing our friendship. I don’t- I don’t care what happens on the court, I don’t care about _any of that_ ,” Yahaba runs his hands quickly through his hair, a nervous quirk of his, “because I couldn’t stop thinking about _your face_ after you confessed, when I left and I… _I don’t ever want you to look like that again._ I-I don’t want you to be rejected, I don’t want you to be heartbroken, and I… I can’t imagine being without you. This weekend and, and yesterday? _It hurt_ , and when your mom said you weren’t home, I was _so scared_ -”

“What do you mean?” Kyoutani asks, breathless, not believing any of this, expecting to wake up any minute but _needing_ to hear the words from his own lips, _needing_ them like oxygen, and when Yahaba finally meets his eyes, there’s tears clinging to his lashes.

“ _I like you too_.”

Everything shatters, reforms, repaints this scene, in the middle of a sidewalk with the tars hung around them with people milling about, wondering and staring but _none of it matters_ because… because…

“S-Say something…” Yahaba chokes, and the plea sounds so much like a sob that it breaks Kyoutani’s heart.

He surges forward, collecting Yahaba in a hug that has his chin bumping against Yahaba’s shoulder, hating that inch he has on him, hating that he didn’t listen. It’s not a second later that Yahaba hugs him back, fiercely, like they’re both trying to crush the other, but _none of it matters_.

“I’m so sorry,” Kyoutani chokes out, his head turning towards Yahaba’s neck, his lips feeling his collar when they move.

“I’m sorry, too,” Yahaba replies, one of his hands moving to cradle the back of his head, and nothing else matters.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! please leave a comment, if you can, or come yell at me on tumblr (hijackedhoneybeeez)!  
> keep moving forward, and never give up, and if you need anyone to talk to, I'm here!  
> <3  
> -HB


End file.
